when war is raging
by PhoenixKeir
Summary: And undoubtedly this is the hardest thing of Daryl's life, and he doesn't have the first idea of what to do, how to deal, how to cope. But he won't give up, he won't just stop living, because that's not his thing.. Sequel to Mercy.


So hey guys, this is the sequel to Mercy, so if you haven't given that a read, this might not make much sense to you! So I hope you'll go give that a chance, and I hope you enjoy this follow-up! Any feedback is appreciated, as always! Also this is canon-compliant and takes place somewhere after the end of season 3. (Which at this point, it does diverge from canon, but well, yeah.)

* * *

_Am I a dead man now, left living with the shame  
I'm... already broken,  
already gone,  
I'm a breathing, talking, dead man walking,  
already see it, in your face..._

_Dead Man Walking - The Script_

"A man does what he will, not what he must." -George R.R. Martin

when war is raging

* * *

It had to be done.

In the end, that didn't matter, though. Didn't fucking change anything, that was for sure. And well, this wasn't the type of thing that you could just walk off, the type of thing where you could stop to take a breath and regain your sense of self. This was pulsing hot, beneath his skin, bleeding into every thought. This was poison, choking off his supply of air, infecting the blood flowing through his veins.

Daryl jerked himself to his feet, angrily pressing the toes of his boots against the cement of the cell he had unknowingly made his way into. He paced a couple of steps forward and slammed his fist against the bars, enough to feel the impact rattling against his knuckles and up the bones of his arm. Well, _fuck_, at least he could still feel something other than the grief and self-loathing and _regret_ that threatened to drown him with every breath.

Every breath that he could take, and every breath that a little girl couldn't, wouldn't, take ever again.

Daryl had no idea how long had passed since they had returned to the prison. Seconds, minutes, hours, day, he didn't know. All he knew was that every single one was just a reminder, a time-marker of the length of time that innocent eyes had been closed, never again to open up - not to see the stars in the night sky, not to see the sun shine bright - never again to reveal their brilliant blue to the world.

Daryl had always been so fucking weak.

Echoes of a past, - fighting on a bridge, Merle yelling _you helping people out of the goodness of your heart, even though you might die doing it? - _and isn't that just fucking Daryl's life? Risking everything he had to save a family trapped with their baby, only to end up slaughtering a young girl further down the road. He had never particularly been a fan of irony, and really Daryl had no idea what fucking deity he managed to piss off, but he is so goddamn, _truly _sorry.

And he really couldn't deal being trapped in this cage, not for a second longer. He yanked his crossbow over the shoulder that he had messily bandaged earlier, the gunshot wound aching at the harsh treatment, a fresh layer of blood beginning to seep through the thick wrapping. Daryl didn't care.

He stormed down the staircase and towards the area where the mixed group of Woodbury residents and their own people had scattered themselves out. Daryl scanned them briefly, more out of habit than anything, and noticed absentmindedly that Rick did not seem to be there. Which was a huge relief, actually. Daryl didn't want to see him, not now. He _did _notice Carl at the corner of his eye, only the vague outline of his shape, and Daryl did not turn to look at him.

Instead, he flicked his eyes to the other side of the room, where everyone else was sitting against the wall, faces turned to the ground. Unable to look him in the eyes.

Fucking _finally,_ Daryl thought, you can all see me for who I _really_ am. And there are many words that he could use to describe just the person he is, but there are much too many, and his father made sure that Daryl had known them intimately at a young age.

A chair scraped somewhere behind him, and Daryl heard someone starting to get to their feet. He ignored them and made his way to the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the sunlight. He squinted up at the sky and thought, I guess it's morning. He winced at the jolt of pain that shot through his head. Apparently getting beamed with a rifle in the side of the head left some damage. Truth was, Daryl still didn't care.

He started to make his way to the fence, intent on moving towards the wilderness, the only one place he'd ever felt truly at home in. Before he could get even halfway there he was interrupted by a young voice calling his name.

Daryl half-turned, already aware of who was chasing him down, and wishing he could keep walking.

Carl jogged to a halt in front of Daryl, and hesitated, one hand on his sheriff's hat and the other awkwardly fumbling around the pocket of his jeans. Daryl waited, because whatever he was about to hear, he deserved every single word of it.

"What happened yesterday, um, what you did..." Carl started, sounding nervous. Which was really not what Daryl had expected him to say, at all.

Although, Daryl did appreciate the way he phrased it, rather than saying _when you murdered that little girl in cold blood. _Little mercies.

"I wanted to thank you..." Carl said, head down and hat shading his eyes from Daryl.

And Daryl wanted to fucking cry.

Because in what world did a kid, a young boy, _fucking _thank him for killing a little girl. Daryl wanted to scream, but he's not sure that he will be able to stop if he starts.

And Daryl can't find the words to express what he wants to, doesn't think they even make up definitions that would do justice to the things running through his head in that moment. So he says nothing.

Carl looked up and sighed, and he looked miserable and sad. "I just... I don't know, wanted you to know that."

Daryl nodded. That seemed to be enough for Carl, who turned to make his way back inside the prison. Daryl didn't watch him go. Instead, he made to continue to his original destination, only to freeze mid-step when he realized that Rick was in the watch tower and was looking straight at him. Daryl recovered nicely though, sliding easily back into pace and pressing forward, completely intent on ignoring the presence of the other man.

And obviously, because the world wasn't cruel enough, Rick began to make his way down the staircase, which would put him directly into Daryl's path. Daryl briefly warred with himself about turning around and going back, maybe finding a tomb or something to haunt inside the prison. But then he thought, _fuck it, _what's the point. So he waited for Rick to make his way to him, bracing himself for the many outcomes he can see resulting from this conversation.

Except. Except Rick was looking at him with a concerned frown, not with the caution that he should be regarding Daryl with, because he's pretty sure he just killed an innocent little girl. If he didn't already have a top-notch reservation in the pit, he certainly did now.

"Daryl," Rick said, and he looked imploring, like he was trying to make Daryl understand through the art of facial expressions, "You're a good man, you know that, right?"

And Daryl laughed. Because _lies. _He wasn't a good man before the world ended, and he most certainly isn't a good man after.

He tried, yeah, he really did. But good and Daryl Dixon aren't two things that blend, not ever. He was just a monster, and useless, and pathetic, and every other word that had ever been thrown at him throughout his life.

And he blinked and he was back in the moment - _Brave, aren't you?, _glittering dark eyes, teeth glinting, - and - teary eyes, tangled blonde hair, a tattered teddy bear - and - a bloodstained grip beneath his palm, his finger against a trigger, innocent blood spilt all over the dirt and across his hands.

And undoubtedly this is the hardest thing of his life, and he doesn't have the first idea of what to do, how to deal, how to cope. But he won't give up, he won't just _stop _living, because that's not his thing. Because that would make that little girl's life a waste, and it was _not. _So Daryl would keep going, for the same reasons he always has, for the people who can no longer go on themselves.

"No," Daryl said, "I'm not."

And if his eyes were wet, neither of them will mention it.

* * *

Soooo, that broke my heart to even write, so I hope that you guys felt the emotion I tried to put into that piece. I originally wrote this because a handful of people requested a sequel to show Daryl coping, and I tried for that really, but this is what came out.

I actually outlined a couple of different plots, but this one just grabbed onto my heart and ran, because we all know that Daryl doesn't do comfort and he doesn't do hugging and breaking down. So I thought this was more in-character and did more justice to his character. And keep in mind this is Daryl POV so this is how he sees himself, not how he actually is.

Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
